


Downpour

by winterkill



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Beach Vacation, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Naath's weather is modeled after Florida, and Brienne being extra competent, and a contrived need to huddle for warmth because TROPES, and erotic aloe vera application because reasons, includes dumbass Jaime getting a sunburn, there's a Pia cameo because I love her
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:53:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28417164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterkill/pseuds/winterkill
Summary: The weather on Naath is fucking bananas.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 50
Kudos: 197
Collections: JB Festive Festival Exchange 2020





	Downpour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [slipsthrufingers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slipsthrufingers/gifts).



> This fic is my gift for the lovely slipsthrufingers! I was so excited to be able to write a fic for our awesome event organizer. The prompts were:
> 
> 1\. hurt/comfort with cuddles  
> 2\. getting caught in the rain  
> 3\. beach holiday
> 
> I managed to do all three!

Catelyn has barely taken the time-off request from Brienne’s hand when she says, “So, where are you and Jaime going this year?”

“Who says I’m going with Jaime? Maybe I’m going to Tarth to visit Dad,” Brienne lies.

“You did that last month,” Catelyn holds the paperwork up and skims it, “You don’t need two weeks to visit Tarth.”

Brienne’s officemate, Pia, takes the opportunity to poke her head through the door, “They’re going to Naath, Mrs. Stark. Brienne was looking up things to do on her phone earlier.”

“On _company time._ Brienne?” It’s hard to tell if Catelyn is genuinely offended. “And then you tried to lie to me, too?”

“Only so you’d not...do this.” Brienne gestures futilely with her hands. “Jaime and I aren’t dating.”

Pia says, _“Suuuuuuure._ You’re not dating, and he isn’t the sexiest man in Westeros. Whatever you need to tell yourself, Brienne.” Pia’s crush on Jaime is known to everyone _except_ Jaime, but she never seems jealous of Jaime’s friendship with Brienne.

Even Catelyn, who finds Jaime irritating in both a professional _and_ personal capacity, smiles slightly. “Jaime _does_ care about you, you know. He’s ten percent less of a smartass when you’re around, and you’re the only person he listens to.”

“Jaime’s totally in love with you,” Pia adds helpfully, “Why else would he practically live on your couch and talk about you constantly?”

“Because that’s just how Jaime is.” 

Catelyn looks past Brienne to Pia, and they both shrug.

* * *

A few weeks later, Jaime crashes at her place the night before their flight leaves. It’s a long trip--an unconscionably early boarding time, two layovers, and crossing more time zones than Brienne cares to count. Her phone will tell her the time in Naath anyway.

Jaime sleeps on her couch almost as much as he sleeps in his own bed. In fact, he takes the spare pillow and blankets from her hall closet without asking. It’s just like how he knows his way around her kitchen and steals her fancy soap. The first time she brushed against Jaime in her kitchen, and he smelled like lavender, Brienne smacked his shoulder and scolded him.

He’d shrugged and said, “There wasn’t anything else to use.” 

Brienne thinks that shrugging, that passive and almost intrinsic way they’ve drifted closer together and wormed their way into one another’s space over the last few years, is part of the problem. They make odd friends--Jaime’s over a decade older than her, and they’ve led very different lives. At first, Brienne thought it was _so_ strange that he wanted to hang out with her. Catelyn was right that Jaime’s a smartass, but he’d held her hand when her father was in the hospital, and she was sick with worry. She’d helped him move into his new apartment when he cut ties with his family. There’d been all sorts of things like that between them over the last few years.

They bicker, and sometimes she gets defensive, or Jaime’s words cut too close. Despite it, they’re naturally on the same wavelength about so many things that they grew closer and closer together until, now, they’re so tangled in one another Brienne couldn’t extract herself if she tried.

“Thanks for letting me crash here,” he calls out to Brienne while she’s double checking her packing list, suitcase open on her bed. She checked his suitcase first; last year, they went to a ski lodge near White Harbor, and Jaime didn’t bring any underpants.

“And for checking your suitcase,” Brienne calls back.

Jaime laughs, “Seven forbid we have a repeat of last year’s underweapocalypse.”

Brienne turns away so he won’t see her stifling a laugh, “Stop trying to make that a thing. No one calls it that but you.”

“But you laugh at it! And who the hell else am I going to say it to? I’m not telling my brother or Addam about us traipsing through a snowdrift looking for a store to buy boxer briefs.”

“If you decide to,” Brienne starts laughing outright, _“please_ let me watch.”

Later, when Jaime falls asleep with the blankets in a crumpled heap on the floor in front of the coffee table, Brienne pulls them up and tucks Jaime in. There’s a bit more gray amidst the golden curls smashed against the pillows, and maybe his crow’s feet are a bit more pronounced, but Jaime is mostly unchanged from the day they met at Renly’s wedding.

Brienne kneels beside him, allowing herself just a moment to take Jaime in. She doesn’t dare touch him, but that doesn’t mean she loves him any less.

* * *

The weather on Naath is fucking bananas. 

Brienne’s used to the sweltering heat of a King’s Landing summer. She’s used to storms blowing in off Shipbreaker Bay and walloping Tarth with icy rain and sometimes hail. She’s used to visiting the Starks at Winterfell and seeing snow that’s deeper than she is tall.

Naath goes from sun to tropical-storm-force wind and rain like someone flipped a damned light switch. The locals seem to know the signs of the abrupt weather change, but to Brienne it seems like the sky goes from clear blue to black and stormy faster than the weather app on her phone can keep up. The first day it happens, they dash into a restaurant, order chilled spiced wine and appetizers, and get way, _way_ too drunk waiting for the rain to stop. Naath’s traditional cuisine is mostly vegetarian, and the fruit is the best Brienne’s ever had. 

When the evening sun finally peaks back through the clouds, all the locals return to the streets like a minor tropical storm didn’t just pass over them--shop doors are thrown open, tables holding silks and other artisan creations are pushed into the streets, awnings are unfurled, and stalls resume serving delicious smelling food. The air is unbearably sticky, like wearing jeans where the pockets are still damp.

Jaime lilts a bit to the side as they walk, “How...How do they just _know?”_

“Magic,” Brienne replies.

“You really think so?”

Brienne grabs Jaime’s bicep to keep him from stumbling when he trips, “Of course not.”

“Maybe it happens at the same time everyday?”

“Or maybe they just know the signs that it’s coming, and we don’t.”

Their hotel isn’t too far away, and Brienne thinks she’s sober enough to get them there in one piece. Luckily, everyone on Naath seems exceedingly friendly. Jaime falls quiet and lets Brienne tug him along.

When they’re back in their room, Jaime sits on the edge of his bed and stares at Brienne for a long time. Brienne hates and loves it in equal measure when Jaime looks at her. His eyes are green and beautiful, but then again, _everything_ about him is. There’s always such an intensity to the way Jaime looks at her; it makes Brienne feel emboldened and terrified all at once.

“The signs,” he repeats, the words coming a bit slow, “Brienne, I keep looking for them, too, but I just can’t tell if I’m imagining them.”

* * *

On the second day, they go to the beach.

Jaime sprawls out on the extra towel Brienne packed like a starfish and takes up as much room as possible. Brienne kicks his leg off her towel and sits beside him.

“Hey!”

“Don’t manspread on my towel,” she scolds.

Brienne can’t tell if Jaime’s eyes are open behind his polarized sunglasses, but he turns his head in her direction either way. “I’m just trying to get an even tan, Brienne.”

“An even--Jaime, when you get skin cancer, don’t come crying to me.” Just to make a point, Brienne takes the sunscreen from her bag and applies an extra coat on her legs and arms.

“I’ll have a golden, sexy beach body though.”

It’s absolutely true, and Brienne absolutely will _not_ say it aloud. Jaime looks very, _very_ good sprawled out on that towel. Jaime looks very, _very_ good all the time. It makes Brienne angry. Her sunglasses are polarized, too, so she admires him out of the corner of her eye. Jaime probably wouldn’t notice either way. He uses her shower and walks around her kitchen in nothing but a precariously positioned towel, offending her with his sexiness. This is no different.

_Jaime doesn’t mean anything by it._

“You’ll get a sunburn if you stay like that too long.” It’s easier, sometimes, to scold Jaime. He’s less overwhelming for Brienne if she keeps that distance. He won’t want a woman who fusses over him like a mother, even if sometimes Jaime obviously would benefit from it.

He puts his arms behind his head and stretches; the motion shows off every inch of annoyingly-perfect musculature and skin. She grabs her water bottle and takes a long drink from it. Jaime just grins at her.

“You know,” Brienne stands up and pulls her t-shirt off, “I’m gonna go swimming.”

Maybe the Summer Sea will cool her off a bit.

* * *

Brienne’s replying to some texts when Jaime lets out a shriek from the shower. She drops her phone on the bed and sprints the length of the hotel room. He never locks the bathroom, so she pushes the door open.

Jaime’s on the opposite end of the shower stall from the water, pressed against the tile. Brienne can just see the top of his head; half his hair is a darker gold from being wet. It’s really a shame that the glass is frosted and affords her only the vaguest of outlines.

“What in the seven hells was that? Are you hurt?”

“No!”

“Then why’d you shriek like an assassin jumped out of your shampoo bottle?”

“The hot water hurts,” Jaime sounds very childish, “You were right about the sunburn.”

Brienne puts her hands on her hips, “I know I was. You already looked pink when I came back from swimming.”

“You should’ve said something.”

“I assumed someone your age could take care of himself.”

 _“Why_ would you assume that?”

“You know, I don’t know,” she sighs.

“I never sunburn this bad at home,” he says, “Or that time we went to Tarth in the summer.”

Brienne sighs again, this time loud enough for Jaime to hear. “The sun is _a lot_ more intense here, and we were out during the middle of the day. It’s not gonna be comfortable, but making the water colder will help.”

“Okay.”

“Yell if you need me, but don’t sound like you’re being murdered.”

Brienne goes back to aimlessly scrolling on her phone. Jaime emerges from the bathroom wearing pajama pants and drying his hair with a towel.

He flops down on the bed next to her and winces before covering his face with his arm like a fainting maiden. _“Brienne,”_ he whimpers.

“Jaime, what are you doing?”

_“Dying.”_

“I highly doubt that.”

“When I had a sunburn as a kid, my mom rubbed this green stuff onto my back.”

“You mean aloe vera?”

Jaime shrugs and winces again, “Yeah, probably. Do you have any?”

“You think I just carry aloe vera around?”

“I think you’re a walking pharmacy on every trip we’ve ever taken.”

Brienne stands up and goes to her toiletries bag on the bathroom counter and grabs the bottle of aloe. “I hate that you’re right.” She tosses it onto the bed.

Jaime picks the bottle up and tilts it so the gel slides around, “That’s the shit. You’re like an incarnation of the Mother.”

 _“Please_ don’t say that.” She wants to be a lot of things to Jaime, but his mother isn’t one of them. 

“Will you do it?” Jaime sits up and turns away from her on the bed looking over his shoulder. The whole scene is very coy. “I can’t reach my back, and it kinda hurts to move.”

Refusing Jaime has become very hard; Brienne thinks of all the times he’s been there for her, and she wants to grant even his fanciful requests. She sits down behind Jaime on the bed and takes the aloe back. 

“You look like a tomato.” Brienne presses her hand against Jaime’s shoulder, and it leaves a white handprint. “It’ll hurt worse tomorrow. You might peel.”

“...Great,” he sighs, “Weren’t we supposed to go snorkeling?”

“We can wait a day; the reefs probably aren’t going anywhere, and if they are, we’ll have bigger, apocalyptic problems to worry about.”

The aloe is cold on Brienne’s hand. A bit spitefully, she slaps it on Jaime’s shoulder before her body heat has any chance to warm it. He yelps again but quiets when Brienne starts to rub the gel into his skin. There’s a calming, tactile rhythm to it, and it’s an excuse to touch Jaime. His skin is too-warm, but smooth, as she coats where his shoulder blades jut out. Then, he lets his head fall forward so Brienne can attend to his very sunburned neck. When she reaches his lower back, Jaime squirms, and Brienne learns he’s ticklish. The intimacy of the detail makes her a bit giddy.

“You’re giggling,” Jaime glances back again, “You only giggle when you’re drunk.”

“I never giggle,” she deflects, trying to summon the willpower to pull her hands away and failing utterly. “You’re thinking of someone else.”

“Some _other_ tall, blonde, freckled woman?” 

“Must be.” 

Jaime’s chuckle is warm, and it makes Brienne's heart twist in a way that she both hates and yearns to feel again. She’s a bit surprised when Jaime leans his back against her. His expression is mostly hidden from view by the angle, but she catches that Jaime’s eyes have fallen shut. 

“Can you do the front, too?”

Brienne’s done something like this once before--Jaime had the flu and slept in her bed for three days. She’d helped him change pajamas and given him a sponge bath. His fever was high enough that she didn’t have a single erotic thought.

That’s _certainly_ not the case this time.

She reaches under his arms, squirts more aloe on her hand and presses it against his stomach. It’s not cold anymore, so Jaime doesn’t jump. Instead, he puffs out air through his nose and goes very still. Brienne tries to be clinical about it, but it’s just the next item on a long list of failures of the evening. His muscles jump under her hand as she works her way up his chest. 

“B-Brienne,” he sighs, and it’s so unlike him to stumble, especially over something as banal as the name of a mere friend.

“You should take some ibuprofen,” she tries to return to business, rather than hearing Jaime sigh her name on loop in her mind. “It’ll help with the pain.”

“Okay, doc.”

After taking the medicine, Jaime crawls under the blankets and falls asleep, seemingly not sparing a thought at taking Brienne’s bed.

* * *

Jaime winces when he sits up in bed the next morning. The sunburn glows a brighter red, and he inspects it by pressing his index finger against his stomach.

“I’m an idiot,” he whines.

“Maybe a little,” Brienne agrees.

They make plans for the day while Brienne gets an encore experience of rubbing aloe on Jaime. He chatters non-stop through the whole thing, which eases some of the tension. Brienne makes him apply his own sunscreen to preserve her sanity, and they agree to go hiking on a series of well-marked trails that lead through the jungles on the interior of the island. 

Brienne ends up carrying nearly everything because Jaime can’t quite hide his wince when he puts his nearly-empty backpack on his shoulders.

The jungle is shady--another reason Brienne chose it over snorkeling. Jaime paddling around, face down, in the Summer Sea sounds like a great way to get _more_ sunburn. They spend the morning winding their way through the jungle looking at bright, tropical flowers. 

“Do you think a jaguar is going to eat us?” Jaime asks mid-morning.

“I think you’ve driven them all away by talking so much.”

Jaime’s only response is an offended _hmph._

* * *

It’s not even noon when the rain starts coming down in sheets.

They’ve followed the trail to an untouched section of beach; the sand on Naath is so white and fine that it reminds Brienne of snow. The storm hits them like mugger attacking from behind in a darkened alley--swift and disorienting. Only Brienne can fight a mugger, and there isn’t shit she can do about the weather.

With torrential rain, all Brienne can really do is take Jaime’s hand and run in the hope her chosen direction has some sort of shelter. By the time she pulls Jaime under a rocky outcropping a bit away from the surf, they’re both very soaked. The space isn’t a cave--Brienne can clearly see the back of it, but it does provide enough coverage for them to get out of the rain.

 _“What,”_ Jaime shakes his head like a wet dog and sends water droplets flying, “in the _seven hells_ is up with this fucking island?”

Brienne starts laughing and soon she’s doubled over, hands resting on her thighs, “I--I don’t know. It’s so random, right?”

Jaime laughs, too, and when they’ve composed themselves somewhat, they sit side-by-side against the rock wall.

“Should we just wait?” Jaime asks, “We’re not that far from the hotel, and it only lasted a couple hours yesterday.”

She nods, “If only we had some of that spiced wine from yesterday.”

“M-Maybe warmed this time. I’d take some mango slices, too.”

Brienne pulls her backpack onto her lap. Water droplets run down the fabric, but it’s waterproof, so everything inside should be dry. The backpack was expensive and hadn’t failed her yet. “I have water, granola bars, and dried apricots.”

Jaime shivers and takes a granola bar, “It’ll do.”

* * *

They sit in silence for a while watching the rain hitting the beach. The horizon line is blurred, and when-- _if--_ the rain stops, the sand will be dimpled from the droplets. Brienne considers getting her phone out of the drybag in her backpack, but, knowing her luck, she’ll get it wet somehow.

She isn’t sure how much time passes before Jaime says, _“Hmmm,_ maybe we should run for it?”

“Through the jungle? We hiked at least an hour to get here.”

“...Good point.”

Jaime’s knees are pulled against his chest, and he’s resting his chin on them. The way he’s hugging his legs makes him look like a little kid. As Brienne watches him, the wind picks up, catching just right so it rushes through their hiding spot. It’s not cold, but Jaime shakes regardless.

“Are you cold?”

“N-No,” he sounds surly, “It’s not cold.”

“It’s not,” Brienne agrees, “but you’re shivering.”

“I actually don’t feel so good.” Jaime closes his eyes.

Brienne reaches out and puts her palm against Jaime’s forehead; it’s warm, but she doubts he has a fever. “A bad sunburn can feel like the flu.”

“...That’s stupid.”

“And yet, here we are.” Brienne opens her backpack again for the microfiber towels she bought the first time they went camping. One is big enough to be a beach towel, and the other is smaller. Both fold up deceptively small and dry quickly. As she unzips the carrying case, she says to Jaime, “Take off your shirt.”

_“Excuse me?”_

“You’re wet.” Standing, Brienne pulls her tank top off and pushes down her shorts. She’d worn her swimsuit under her clothes, just in case she wanted to swim. It’s damp, too, but not as much as her clothes. “You’ll feel better if you’re dry.”

Jaime is slack jawed, and his eyes look like they’re about to do that thing from cartoons where they pop out on springs. His cheeks are definitely sunburnt, but he looks especially red now. “Does me being dry involve _you_ taking off your clothes?”

“I-I thought we could sit under the towel, and I didn’t want to get it wet.”

“Maybe we should just get naked, then.” He waggles his eyebrows at her, then winces because of the sunburn.

Brienne puts the smaller towel on the ground before sitting back down and shaking out the beach towel, “J-Just come here if you’re cold.”

He peels his shirt off and drops it on a dry patch of rock. Then, to Brienne's horror _and_ delight, Jaime drops his swim trunks. She’s seen him naked a couple times, but she always tries _not_ to look too closely.

...It’s a bit hard to avoid, this time.

Before she can utter a single word, Jaime is under the towel and pressed against Brienne’s side. He tries to tuck it around him and finds the width lacking. “This is uncomfortable on my ass.”

“That’s what you get for _stripping,”_ Brienne _almost_ shrieks. Jaime shivers again. “G-Get over here before I change my mind.”

Later, Brienne will probably deeply regret this whole, ridiculous scene.

* * *

They elbow one another a bit as they get comfortable, and Jaime winces no fewer than eight times. Brienne stretches her legs so Jaime can sit between them; the towel doesn’t cover her feet, but that doesn’t matter. Wisely, Jaime positions himself on his side, legs curled close to his body. Only his shoulder and arm are pressed against her, and he’s resting his head against her collarbone. It minimizes the contact on his back where the sunburn is the worst.

Jaime’s quiet, and if he’s fallen asleep, Brienne will tease him for being an old man when he wakes up---safer territory than commenting on how he’s _very_ naked in her arms. She keeps her hands to herself, partially to avoid hurting Jaime and partially because touching him is a dangerous game, and Brienne never likes her odds when she wagers.

Brienne _thinks_ Jaime’s awake; his breathing isn’t slow enough, and he’s almost too still.

“You know,” he finally whispers, “I’ve never been with anyone like this.”

Always too practical, too literal, Brienne replies, “I hope you don’t make a habit of being naked on remote beaches during a rainstorm.”

His chuckle, warm and rich, softens Brienne’s resolve.

“You’re being obtuse on purpose, aren’t you?”

“I’d never,” she lies; only Brienne’s never been a good liar. “W-What _do_ you mean?”

“We’re close,” Jaime’s voice is even softer, “You’re careful with me.”

Brienne knows Jaime’s family is indifferent at best and cruel at worst. He doesn’t talk much about past relationships, but there are lingering traces that make Brienne think that, for love, Jaime would suffer and think it was a gift.

“I-It’s nothing.” Brienne knows that’s a bad lie, too. It’s _something,_ heavy and unnamed between them. It’s Brienne’s pounding heart, and the love she struggles to keep locked away. It’s her fear of losing all her hiding places.

“It sure doesn’t feel like nothing.”

“Any friend would do this.”

She fusses with the towel, tucking it closer. Jaime catches Brienne’s wrist and tugs until her arm is draped around his waist. He flinches when she brushes against him. Brienne keeps her arm as still as possible, fingers curled around Jaime’s hipbone. They didn’t go to a nudist beach, so there’s no sunburn there.

Jaime turns his head so his expression is completely obscured from her view. “I don’t think that’s true, either.”

“We’re intimate.” The word choice feels silly and wrong. Jaime starts laughing, warm puffs of breath against her damp swimsuit, and it makes Brienne feel even more foolish. “Everyone thinks we’re...something we’re not. I keep...I keep saying that we _couldn’t_ be like that.”

“I told Addam the same thing last week. He asked me _why,_ and I didn’t really have a good reason.” Jaime glances up at her, green eyes wide and uncertain; the expression looks unfamiliar on him. “Why, Brienne? Why can’t we be what we’re not?”

“I..I don’t…”

“If you don’t want things to change, tell me, and I’ll shut up.”

Brienne’s heart pounds, and Jaime can surely hear it. While he waits for her to speak, Jaime wraps his arms around her waist. It feels like he’s comforting her preemptively, or maybe he’s comforting himself. There’s no point in denying, at least to herself, how greedy she is for every bit of Jaime’s skin that’s touching hers.

Finally, she musters the courage to say, “I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“That things will change for the worse,” she shuts her eyes. _And I’ll lose you in the end._

“Brienne, I already practically live with you.”

“That’s...that’s different.”

“I sleep on your couch and steal your food.” Jaime laughs again, and it sounds a bit mocking, “I’m _always_ trying to get your attention.”

The dozens of memories of Jaime doing those exact things make Brienne smile. “You act like a cat, you know.”

“I walk around your living room in a towel, Brienne. I pretend to fall asleep on you when we watch TV.”

Brienne lost count of how many times Jaime leaned against her shoulder on the couch. A few times, he fell asleep with his head in her lap. She’d run her fingers through his hair and felt both thrilled and guilty. It occurs to her now that, maybe, Jaime was awake. The thought makes her face redder than his sunburnt one.

_How many signs did I miss?_

Feeling quite lame, Brienne says, “I thought that was just how you are.”

“An attention whore?”

“Y-Yeah.”

“Only for you, Brienne. All I’ve ever wanted is for you to notice.”

When Jaime moves to look at her, Brienne wonders if she’ll find annoyance in his expression. Instead, there’s no mistaking his affection--the soft, slightly wry smile playing on his lips, the amused way his eyes crinkle at the corners. 

Brienne’s words get stuck in her throat; Jaime’s name is the only word she can manage, and she glances away as she says it. Anyone who’s ever called her brave doesn’t know the truth.

“Hey,” Jaime stops hugging her and takes her chin between his thumb and index finger, “You always shy away when I look at you.” 

Having the truth stated so boldly stings a bit. Brienne is used to looking at Jaime in her periphery--staring at him straight on was always too blinding. _How many times have I missed this expression?_

“I’m scared,” she admits, “Love could mess it all up.”

“Don’t be. Only one thing’s gonna be different.”

Before Brienne can ask what Jaime means, he’s kissing her. It’s something Brienne’s only pondered in the dead of night when she’s alone in her bed and wishing Jaime, asleep on the couch, would come to her. Jaime twists in her lap and the towel falls away as he buries his fingers in her hair. It feels right--the foregone conclusion of all their time together that Brienne should've stopped looking away from months and months ago. Brienne wraps her arms around him, trying to be mindful of the sunburn. Jaime tries to get closer, even as he winces. The towel slips again in their fervor, and the last vestiges of modesty go with it. 

Brienne doesn’t _look,_ but she feels Jaime, hard and pressed against her thigh. His breath is hot against her ear when he says, “Well, look at what you’ve found.”

“You...you don’t feel good.” She protests with her words but can’t stop herself from touching him. “And isn’t this bad timing?”

Jaime lets out a flutterly sigh and kisses her neck to show his approval, “I feel pretty good right now, and there’s no sunburn where you’re touching.”

“T-That’s a fair point.”

“You know there’s no one else. When would I have time? I’m always with you.”

“That’s...also true.” Jaime’s hands have started to journey under her swimsuit, tickling up her sides. 

“I’ve seen your birth control pills in the bathroom.”

“...Of course you have.”

Jaime pulls the strap of her swimsuit off her shoulder. “And when we get back, maybe you can take care of me some more, and maybe I’ll feel compelled to pay you back.”

“H-How?”

“Oh, I think you know.”

The rainstorm keeps battering the sand, but neither of them pay it any mind.


End file.
